Twisted
by The Legend of Derpy
Summary: Twist seems to have contracted a nasty crush on her teacher, and it's not Cheerilee. Minor foalcon. Oneshot.


_Twisted_

_Slight foalcon ahead, be warned._

* * *

The covers slide off her body smoothly, collecting in a pancaked circle at the foot of the bed. She felt quite exposed without the shelter of wool, but was too tired to force the bed sheets back to their rightful place over her thighs. It had been a long night, Twist decided, and an even longer day was imminent on the border of reality. Still, it seemed rather silly to the confectioner that this mental prep course she forced herself through the dawn of every class was necessary. The questioning, the dime a dozen thoughts, it was all rather..._supercilious_. Sometimes, out of rookie error, she would skip the precautionary exercise of deep thinking in the name of a craved good night's rest, but would learn to regret it when, at five AM, her mind was still racing from the dose of Bon Bon.

Twist isn't a fool. She has long pinpointed the origins of her "infatuation" - named so for the purpose of convenience - as a manipulation of her first heat cycle, a means of projected, dejected emotions onto a bodily form. Bon Bon just happened to be stuck in the crossfire. For that, the growing filly pities her, but as her hooves scratch the stable surface of her nether regions, she finds her logic on the matter bursting into flames around her. But she discovers the willpower within her to force her hooves away, sweat crowning her brow. It was not the time for _that_, especially without some sort of spread to shield her exposed bits. Celestia forbid her parents hear or see their daughter in such a position. Twist, her tendency to be vocal, knows better to even risk breaking the silent veil of night lest even a single member of her family be awake. Best to do such things in a busy environment, in a shower, per say.

But still, why Bon Bon? The pony reclines even further into her mattress, spine puffing, pondering the question. Her bottommost goods burn in light of the questioning, put off by their owner's teasing. Crisscrossing her legs tightly in a vain attempt to appease the sensation, she digs her teeth into the inquiry. Perhaps it was the student-teacher relationship the two shared. It wasn't if she was surrounded by friends, albeit the occasional play date with Snips and Snails. But if that was the case, why did these feelings not apply to the case of Cheerilee? This couldn't be actual love, perish the thought. She once again sided with the heat cycle's approach, avoiding the question at hoof.

The clock chimes three thirty, the reflection of which stared down her glasses on the bedstand. It was a matter of hours before she would bully her way out of the bedroom, grab her apron, and head out to her instructor's home, which doubled as the two's classroom. Most fillies would reel at the thought of wasting their summer in a baking kitchen, but as candy creation was her special talent - her "edge", as she privately calls it - Twist didn't mine the early rising and heat of the oven as much as she should have under normal circumstances. After all, what with her parents busy with orders for the upcoming Summer Solstice, she needed an extra hoof to teach her about baking. One day, she might even take over the family business. But, above all, she really ought to be asleep. Bon Bon was going to teach her how to make the perfect batch of double chocolate cookies, an recipe deceitful to its simplistic looks. Maybe the teacher would wear her distinct apron, the one with the flowers? That occasionally rides the base of her tail and forces it up to reveal the goods?

_No, go to sleep. There is no such apron, now you're just day dreaming. Night dreaming. Morning dreaming?_

An attempt to fling her hooves in the air goes awry, as Twist manages to only flick the tips of her hooves into the air hopelessly, her energy sapped from her being. She stares at the blank ceiling above, counting cracks. Her insides still scorch, not relived in the least bit. The last bit of energy from before has dissipated, leaving behind nothing but bodily disappointment. Oh, come off it, there can't possibly be anyone awake at this point! What harm is there in a little natural fun? Gritting her teeth, she focuses harder than ever on her question, though she now no longer remembers her well based argument. Bon Bon's face burns into the ceiling above her head, and Twist can't tear away. It's four thirty now, and the clock is hissing at her to get on with it. Her apron hangs on a wooden peg across near the door. She focuses on that instead of the build up between her legs. It's a fine thing, two pockets, a gift from teacher to student. Probably cost a pretty bit.

The candy coated mare rubs the filly's shoulders on top of the apron, muscles relaxing under the weight of each crashing wave. Blood rises in her body, she can feel it swimming under each touch, her back blushing like a sunburn. Twist is too tired to fight the hallucination off, and instead releases an involuntary moan, the imagery so real to her penetrable mind.

"Don't you know?" Bon Bon says, nipping playfully at the child's ear. She raises her body over that of Twist's, almost riding her like a showpony carousel. "This gift comes with a _price_."

An alarm clock rings in the distance, and her immersion leaves as quickly as it came.

Sighing, she pushes her way off the bed, using a corner of the spread blanket as a landing pad. The sun squints through her blinds, and she pulls them open, reflecting on the day's foretold events as her body is coated in light.

Yes, it will definitely be a long day.

* * *

AN: Too much listening of the _Bayonetta_ OST led to this. I can't exactly make it a clopfic because of FFN's rules against MA, sorry. Anyway, this is just a little harmless oneshot that didn't take too long to make. I wanted to experiment to see how listening to music would affect my writing, so if you look closely, you can tell where I listening to _Let's Dance Boys! _and switched to _-ERROR_.

But yeah, we need more of this inane shipping.


End file.
